Friday, July 3, 2009

The Singing Bichon, a poem by Patrick Cotter.

The Irish poet Patrick Cotter was born in 1963 and educated at University College, Cork. After leaving college in the mid 80s, Cotter worked as Literature Officer at the Triskel Arts Centre before embarking on a career as a bookseller which ended in 2002. He continues to live and work in Cork as director of the Munster Literature Center. His poems have been translated into Estonian, Italian, Norse, Norwegian, Russian, Spanish and Swedish and he's given readings of his work in Ireland, California, Germany, Estonia, Norway, Italy and India. He's been shortlisted for both the Hennessy Award and the Patrick Kavanagh Award. Today's selection is from his first full-length collection of poems, Perplexed Skin, which was published by Arlen House in 2008.

The Singing Bichon by Patrick Cotter

My dog sings arias but only to me.Mahler's Kindertotenlieder he knowsimperfectly. The In Paradisumof Faure's requiem he renderswith a strong nasal strain.He can't quite reach all the notesof Purcells's The Plaint,but hey, he's just a dog.

He began to singwhen I began to ignore him.Neither of us can stand each other's company.When he shakes his Bichon curls,doggy whiffs tinged with bitter fermentationsassault the upper reaches of my nostrils.His piss perfumes the corner of my living roomwith a pungency made worse by the addition(without obliteration) of the mop-bucket'sammonia-based floor fluid.I can't stand him because he smells.He can't stand me because I'm imperviousto his plaintive, glistening eyes.

Regularly we each need to eludethe secret inner lives of our separate solitudes.I, by listening to my music,he by stepping outdoors to sniffthe arses of other dogsor to beg attention of passing children.After I ignored his whines to be let outsidehe learnt to sing. That first nightI could not avoid paying attentionto his original interpretationof Raphael Courteville's Creep, creep, softly creepI released him. He arse-sniffed.

The following night I ignored his Courtevilleand he sang something by Durefle.I once tried to arrange a soireewhere I planned to accompany him on cello,my living-room is too bijoux for the pianoforte,but with the house full of guestshe had no solitude to escapeand no need to sing.He doesn't know I knowhe sings Rufus Wainwrightwhen he thinks I'm not around.Smelly bastard.